في آمِدِ السَوداءِ بَيضٌ ما اِنثَنَوا

إِلّا حَكَوا سَمَرَ الرِماحِ قُدودا

In the dark night's bosom there is a whiteness that never grows dim

Except when the spears brandish their date-wood shafts like thunderbolts

تَخَذوا مِنَ اللَيلِ البَهيمِ قِلانِساً

وَمِنَ النَهارِ مُباسِماً وَخُدودا

They made cloaks for themselves out of the benighted brute night

And out of the daytime smiles and cheeks all rosy red